Not to worry. Each morning
after you kiss my cheek
and lock the door behind you,
leaving me alone with my body
and this house to walk it around in,
I’ve plenty to do. Monitoring
the meat defrosting on the counter,
checking the refrigerator light’s
on and off, and periodically
resuming my post by the window
to count the leaves, it being August
and there are so many.
I imagine
you’ve not noticed, rattling
your car keys, eager to get going,
but there they are in their summer
uniforms—cheek to cheek like well-
behaved children at choir camp
and all looking in at me looking out
at them.
Often I think they look
to spirit me away, chattering
among themselves the way they do,
at times getting quite agitated
as if they have something of import
to tell. Of course you’ d say it’s only
the breeze, and you’re probably right—
you always are—so it’s better I not
admit how I drop whatever I’m doing
to position myself by the window
and tap on the glass, signaling back
to show I’m paying attention.
Usually
it’s sunny and they’re only swinging
in blue air, yet they do want me to watch
the way the children did when we’ d
take them to the park in the old days.
But when the clouds unlock, roaring in,
dark and furious, and the tossing
gets vindictive—the hail needling down
cold as ridicule, their little faces slapped
into a panic, twisted on their necks,
and the battering starts—I’m nose pressed,
hands splayed against the glass, not knowing
which of us is screaming, Hold on, hold on.